


Remind Me in the Morning

by jswoon2



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, may have to change the rating later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jswoon2/pseuds/jswoon2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sticky notes are everywhere, coating whatever surface there is available. Stiles can’t remember why they’re there or who put them there. Some of the handwriting is his. The other sticky notes are covered in scrawl that he can barely decipher. A few scattered around on the most unusual places have initials signed at the end. Usually by the end of the day he’ll notice that his handwriting are always on the blue. The unrecognizable handwriting is on yellow. Most of the sticky notes with a sloppy -S on the bottom are orange.</p><p>Not that he’ll remember those details in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remind Me in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of sticky notes is inspired by Anterograde Tomorrow by changdictator (on LJ or AFF).
> 
> I'm not a psychology expert so this is purely off of what I've read online about memory loss. I will do my best to eliminate inaccuracies before posting anything.
> 
> (currently un-beta'd)

/

Tuesday morning Stiles wakes up at nine o’clock sharp. It’s unusual for him to wake up so early on a day off but his circadian rhythm is telling his body to wake up and start the day. He swings one foot and then the other off the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes. The sun peering through the curtains silently taunt him. He wants his sleep.

No, he needs his sleep, still the sun at this point won’t let him.

Stiles yawns, stretching his arms above his head when his eyes come into full focus. The sleepy haze is gone.

“Whose bed is this?” he asks, spinning around.

The sheets are baby blue, the comforter black. The rest of the room is painted two shades of brown. Luckily, the sun provides enough light to maneuver around. A lamp is on the bedside table but Stiles goes to turn on the ceiling fan lights instead. Around him the darkness disappears. Golden brown eyes open with shock, looking to wall to wall. There are sticky notes. A lot of them.

“What’s going on?” Stiles’ eyebrows furrow. Of course nobody answers.

His curiosity gets the best of him. He walks forward to the nearest canvas of sticky notes, pulling one of the wall. Another right next to it falls naturally as if it’s come off too many times before and the stickiness no longer is sticky. It reads, “ _Plaid is your favorite color (which is kind of a lie since plaid isn’t a color—not that it stops you from calling it that)._ ”

On the floor it reads, “ _You should always take Allison’s side when she’s fighting with Scott. She brings you cookies. —A._ ”

There are a few more on the wall that catches his attention, though most don’t provide him much information as to where he is. A couple tell him his favorite movies, pastimes, sports teams, and other miscellaneous things. When Stiles takes a step back, he realizes that the sticky notes are the only things that decorate the walls. No shelves or posters someone else would usually have.

The only thing Stiles can see himself doing is exploring. A sticky note told him that the house he’s in has two floors so he goes to explore them both.

The second floor is nothing interesting. Just a master bedroom, bathroom, spare bedroom, and small open area where a large TV is accompanied by an old Wii and XBox sit out in the open. It’s distraction enough that Stiles stops to look at the small assortment of games. GTAV sits on the coffee table, only Stiles doesn’t remember a GTAV coming out. Opening the case he sees another sticky note uniquely pink.

“ _You got this for your 20th birthday. —Catwoman_.”

It’s a nice sentiment that someone bought him a video game—an awesome video game at that—but it makes Stiles a bit frustrated that he can’t remember who gave it to him. As much as he wishes that Catwoman graced him with her presence and wished him a happy birthday, she’s a comic book character. And wait, when did he turn twenty?

“Good morning,”

Startled, Stiles jumps, nearly dropping the video game in the process. His first thought is that holy shit, _someone broke into my house or did_ I _break into their house_? He tries to act nonchalant turning around, wishing that his rapidly beating heart would calm down even just a little bit.

“Guess you didn’t read the sticky note on the lamp.” The male—the deliciously attractive male, Stiles’ brain supplies—says, holding up a plate of bacon and eggs. “Want to come down and eat or do you want to stay up here while playing your game?”

“Who’re you?” Stiles asks first, attempting to step backward but the coffee table stops him.

The male sighs in a way like he had been expecting that kind of answer. “I’m Derek. Derek Hale. Maybe you should sit down and eat first. You seem like you have a lot of questions.”

 

//

Apparently doctors call it anterograde amnesia. Stiles had gotten into an accident and the brain injury caused him to lose his memory. He will be able to remember the old people in his life before the accident, but will have trouble remembering the people who came into his life afterward. That is, if he can remember them at all.

The doctor informed him that the grittier details of his specific case was a bit of a hard one. For the most part, he will be able to remember things that occurred but the small details that may have happened, like the landlord allowing his niece to come and live in the apartment complex rent free, would not be remembered.

The reason for the sticky notes on the walls is to help Stiles remember. Big things, little things. Anything. Some of them are unnecessary to have (like, “ _Batman is totally the bomb. Superman has nothing on him_.”) but others recount the new information in Stiles’ life that he forgets so easily. The most important piece pertains to the man in front of him.

His name is Derek Hale and Stiles met him when he was eighteen. Stiles ran into him on the first day of college running late for his Intro to Psych class. They met prior to the accident but since Derek was just another face, another body he accidentally bumped into on occasion, the memory never stuck. Derek shows disappointment in this but quickly hides it, answering another one of Stiles’ questions. They were a little bit more than just acquaintances, however whatever is a cause of stress prior to the accident can automatically be blocked off by the mind—specifically forgotten—for protection.

It turns out that when it comes to telling stories, and only when telling stories, Derek enjoys talking, otherwise Stiles comes to expect one syllable answers. Stiles can tell that doing so is a bit painful for Derek but he does it anyway, smiling at the memories that Stiles struggles to remember. It’s difficult no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

However, he’s saved from answering any more of Stiles’ questions when three people come bursting through the door.

“Derek, do you mind helping Allison get the chairs from the car? She won’t let me do anything until Deaton says I’m good to go with my waist.” Scott says. Scott, a face that he can remember clearly, is holding a baby with a dark-haired young woman standing next to him, nagging about his said waist problem.

“I told you that wrestling with Boyd near the coffee table was a bad idea. It was your choice to not listen, so now you can just sit down with Stiles while Derek and I get the chairs.” The woman isn’t having any of Scott’s nonsense to where even the puppy dog face doesn’t work.

“Allison, I’m fine,” Scott insists, but is waved off anyway.

Derek laughs, eliciting more emotion than Stiles has seen all morning. “Yeah, I’ll help out. Erica and Boyd will be coming at two tomorrow to help with the rest of the food.”

To Stiles it feels like he blinked once and already the world was rapidly moving around him while he stayed still. He felt like he was being kept out of a secret that everyone else knew but him.

“Who’s Allison?” he starts with, staring at the empty space where the girl had been standing before. “And where’d you get a baby? You didn’t steal a baby, did you?”

Scott laughs, shaking his head, coddling the bundle in his arms. “She’s my wife, and this little monster is our first and only kid at the moment. Thank goodness. Allison wants more but I don’t know if I can go through the whole waking up every other hour throughout the night for a second time. Don’t tell her I said that though. She wants at least one boy and one girl and so far we’ve accomplished part of that goal.”

“How much has happened since the accident?”

“A lot.”

 

/

Scott met Allison when Stiles was away at college. Surprisingly enough, Stiles was the one who remained in California while Scott moved on and out to bigger things. He met Allison within the first few months of college, never willing to reveal who the “perfect girl of his dreams” was to Stiles until he knew for sure that they would be together. This is a memory that Stiles feels is familiar—should be familiar. All it does is make his head hurt.

Erica he remembers. They were friends during high school junior and senior year. They were two peas in a pod. Stiles is the Batman to Erica’s Catwoman. It was through Erica that Stiles ever got an official introduction as to who Derek was in the first place.

Now, even after everything that has happened, they’re still close. They all know each other. Most importantly, they’re doing it all for Stiles.

It turns out that the occasion Derek had been preparing for was Thanksgiving. The doctor suggested doing something that was familiar. Thanksgiving dinner was definitely familiar to Stiles’s memory. Derek took with much seriousness that too much stimulation would be bad, but it’s too late now to go back.

Derek invited Boyd and Erica, the McCalls, Sheriff Stilinski, Lydia and Jackson, and the single Isaac. They were told to arrive around two o’clock, so that’s when they all showed up at the Stilinski-Hale household, food in hand.

“He’s good for you.” His dad tells Stiles, a diversion, he concludes later, to hand him an apple pie without any remarks about his dieting. “He takes care of you since Melissa and I can’t all the time.”

“That’s what Scott says.”

“Scott would be right.”

“The doctor thinks that I should be able to regain some of my memory. Not a lot, but enough to maybe do something of worth. I don’t know how I’ll get a job that I’ll actually be able to enjoy if I can’t remember it. I’d hate to be taught how to do things every day.” Stiles sighs, smiling weakly.

“I know you hate this, kid,” his dad replies, “but everything will turn out okay. We have medicine for you that is supposed to be pretty top notch, not to mention you have an army as a support system.”

“Just to let you know, just because I can’t really remember a thing doesn’t mean you can eat whatever you want now. Be careful on the turkey and gravy tonight,” Stiles warns, enjoying the sensation he gets when his father’s face lights up.

The sheriff never misses a beat. “Next thing I know, you’ll be replacing all the meat in the house with that tofu crap.”

“Is that a dare? I might be able to make it happen. I have a Costco card with my name on it.” Stiles pokes his father on the stomach jokingly. “You’ve gained some weight while I was in the hospital, huh? At least I can remember to bother you about your eating habits. You’d be a lost cause without me.”

As the sheriff is about to respond, Derek comes over, a plate of turkey balanced on hand while the other holds a pair of tongs. “Come and eat before Allison gets all the good stuff. Scott’s been sending distress signals that she’s been eating enough for the bunch of us now that she got off that post-pregnancy diet she was on.”

“I better get some of that turkey before Stiles says I can’t have any at all,” his father makes a face, taking the plate from Derek’s hand while passing him.

“Yeah, he does it because he cares. Remember that one time he thought I was going to the bakery so much that he thought I was going to fall in love with the pastries so he cut me off. All I was trying to do was make sure that his birthday cake was done the way I told the guy to make it. I didn’t think he’d get jealous.” Derek laughs, pearly white teeth and all showing.

Stiles’s eyebrows furrow together, his nose scrunching briefly. “The two people who’re supposed to help me remember are making fun of me. I love you guys too.” He means it as a joke but the way Derek spins around and looks at him like a kicked puppy is too much to handle. “Sorry, I just—I’m trying to make the best of all of this.”

“Yeah,” Derek concedes, “you haven’t changed a bit. C’mon, we should probably get our own plate of food before Allison eats it all.”

“I heard that!” they both hear from their dining room table, followed by an eruption of laughter.

At least Thanksgiving feels familiar.


End file.
